EXPLICIT One Night in London
by Feralious
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt: Holmes was raped before he met Watson. Later he falls in love with him, and one time when they make love Watson makes him relive that moment. Holmes breaks down, leaving Watson in almost as much pain. Can he regain his trust again?


**Prompted by tabby_stardust over at the SH kinkmeme (which I don't follow, I don't do prompts, I don't write smut - but I came across this one and well...) Oh, and if you're a Holmes/Watson fan and haven't heard of her, shame on you! Look her up on Tumblr for the best photo manips you've ever seen.  
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**Prompt summary: **

Before Holmes and Watson met, Holmes was raped. Later he falls in love with Watson, and then one time (first time or not is up to you) when they make love Watson calls Holmes the same pet name as the rapist did. (Or does something else that reminds Holmes of the rape.) Holmes freaks out. How can Watson gain his trust again?

Or if you want to make this really dark, maybe Watson _was_the rapist.

Movieverse, please.

Bonus points for violent rape flashback.

**I promised myself I'd go to bed hours ago. Then I saw this prompt. I thought, 'I want to do this someday'. Then I put down a few lines to get started. Then - as it always does - it got away from me (well, not always, but every time it's inconvenient it does).**

**I'm terrible. I was so sure I'd never write smut and the first time I write sex it's rape. Though I tried to keep it somehow decent. Go figure.**

**Even if this is terribly out of my comfort zone (I love writing angst but these are new and sickening circumstances) I do hope you'll like it and I would love it if you could tell me what you think! :)**

**The rape takes place in the middle of this story between the '...' and can be ignored if all you want is some hurt/comfort and sweet Watson.**

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><p>He bites down sharply on his neck, one hand pinning his left arm to the bed, the other firmly gripping his tousled hair, damp with sweat. Holmes just lies there, muscles tensed and trembling, wanting to move but unable to due to a strong knee pushed into his elbow and a muscular body lying on top of his. He's not sure that he wants to, either - it feels good, so <em>good<em> just everything that he's doing to him.

They'd done this before, of course - several times, if you must know. At first it had happened almost accidentally - though he knew Watson had wanted it as much as he did - but their sexual encounters quickly grew more successive, even if neither of them spoke of it during the day. There were different causes for every time - either Holmes would be frustrated with a case not going to his liking, or they'd just had a lovely dinner at The Royale - perhaps Watson had returned to 221B from a fight with his wife. Or, every so often, they just needed to tend to each other's needs.

Tonight, however, had another reason entirely.

Tonight he'd realized that every feeling he experienced when just being near Watson - and every single moment when he was not within his sight, for that matter - had been caused by a connection between them that was stronger than their friendship. Something better. Something even more pure, despite how wrong it might seem to the outside world.

He hadn't let him know yet.

He doubts he ever will.

Letting himself be overwhelmed by the blissful sensations, he closes his eyes and bites down into the pillow to muffle his groans of pleasure as Watson finds a particularly sensitive spot just beneath his ear. Subconsciously he slightly turns his head so he has full access to the sensitive skin as he continues in their sinful act, chuckling into his ear.

His moaning abruptly stops when breath hitches in his throat, his mind freezing over.

_"I didn't know you were so easy."_

He doesn't even notice the whimper escaping his throat.

"Holmes? What's wrong?"

Carefully the larger man removed himself from him and rolled aside so he was facing the other man, worry apparent in his usually brilliant eyes.

"Did I hurt you?"

Holmes fails to regain his self-composure, instead smothering a sob in the pillow. Inwardly he curses himself, tries to force himself to just blink back the tears and tell Watson that everything's fine.

He can't.

Not now. Not tonight.

Not when he's this vulnerable.

A large hand reaches out to gently stroke his bare back, but with reflexes even faster than when he's in the fighting ring he violently slaps it away. This truly has Watson worried; before him lies the man he cares so much for with all his heart, but all he can see is a wounded animal, ready to attack if it senses danger.

Danger.

_He's_ danger.

What the hell's going through his head?

…

Two strong hands grab his small frame, yanking him into the dark alley. Sherlock immediately tenses up, his feet dangling slightly above the ground, immobilized by the firm grip those dirty, grimy hands have on him.

"Don't go out on your own at this time of night," his mother had told him. "Cruel things happen in the streets of London."

Sherlock had nodded, as always just going along with everything she said, only to later do as he pleased. Tonight had been no exception.

Really, all he'd wanted to do was sneak into the theatre. Tonight they'd be performing some classical pieces from a guy named Schubert or something like that, at least it sounded German. Sherlock didn't have any money but he was very much capable of finding his way into buildings that weren't guarded all too well.

Thing is, he had to walk through dark alleyways to get in. And he could just see the backdoor to the theatre from where he was hanging.

A foul stench made him shiver as one of the hands clasped over his mouth. He could almost taste the filth - some meaty odor, he smelled blood - but the hand wasn't one of a murderer, for that it was too plump, but the man did have a strong grip -

A butcher. The man holding his small back to his massive chest was a butcher. No doubt he killed the animals as slowly as possible. A man who took pleasure in torturing them.

Only then it hit him what exactly his mother had been warning him for.

_Monsters prowl the streets at night in London._

He wants to scream, not caring if he gets caught - hoping he gets caught, praying to be able to have his mother scold him when he gets home - _if_ he gets home - but all he hears is his own muffled voice and rough laughter from behind him as he takes in the rustling of trousers being undone and sliding down. His are soon jerked down as well, but the man is strong enough to hold him in place with one hand, despite his desperate attempts to pry the fingers loose.

Sherlock is young, small; he's no match for the man retaining him. He swears loudly – which just ends up as more muffled sounds - as he tries to bite the greasy fingers covering his mouth, but this only results in him being shoved face-first into the wall. It hurts, but he ignores the pain because he has a frightening idea of what's coming next.

He vows to himself at that moment to get stronger, to never let anyone treat him like this again. He'll strengthen his muscles and practice fighting techniques so he will be able to defend himself if anyone ever tries to hurt him once more.

He'll never let another man touch him like this again.

Most of those thoughts would come true, even if little Sherlock didn't know it at the time. Now, all he was aware of was the intense pain shooting through his body as the man harshly pushed himself into the boy.

This time his screams were so piercing that even the stubby fingers couldn't contain all of them.

They were lost in the barely audible music coming from the theatre across the street, along with the other various sounds that could only be heard in London at night.

The pain was seething, burning, as the man relentlessly pounded inside him, with each thrust shoving his face up against the wall. Completely unbeknownst to the boy blood started to trickle down his face from the seemingly never-ending scraping on the rancid bricks.

He vaguely noticed one of those disgusting hands reaching in front of him, but despite his weak attempts at stopping him, fingers clawing desperately, he firmly gripped his groin. In time with his still ruthless actions he started to squeeze him, considerably gently at first, but it only took a few thrusts for the man to grow impatient and grab his genitals.

It was even more sickening than the penetration itself, because as much as he hated himself and wanted to die right there, the touch led his body to react in what would be considered a natural way.

There was nothing natural about this. This was Satan's work.

If only for a moment, the beating slowed down. One hand was still wrapped around his mouth - he was getting trouble breathing, his breath having caught in his throat both from the claiming of his genitals and the gory smell still assaulting his nostrils - but the other was rather vigorously jerking him off. It was painful, humiliating, but somehow his body seemed to not care in the slightest just who and what was doing this to him, for it responded as almost in gratitude. Sherlock felt blood rushing to his loins, feelings of despair and helplessness washing over him. His fingers stopped digging into the man's flesh, his legs stopped kicking, his mouth fell shut and his voice died in his throat.

It was no use. No use fighting, no use struggling. Soon this would all be over. If the man was lenient, soon he wouldn't have to remember any of this.

Somehow, he doubted he would get the same mercy this man showed his animal victims.

The hand tightened around his hard member, caressing him with long, callous strokes. While he was still inside him, he bent closer to his head, revolting breath tickling his ear.

"I didn't know you were so easy."

His body is still trembling and he fights the urge to throw up. Tonight he's lost his innocence, but he won't let him have his pride. Even in this absolutely degrading situation he won't show him any weakness. He's taken what he could, he wouldn't get anything more. He wouldn't beg.

It wasn't like things could get any worse, now could they.

He grunted at the lack of response, instead squeezing him again, painfully so, and then the pounding resumed. Rupturing the tissue once more - which had finally had some rest, even with the intruder still inside - Sherlock bit back a scream, praying for someone to just put him out of his misery.

It was that night that he truly lost his faith in God.

At last, it ended. He had absolutely no idea how long he'd been violated in that alley, but somewhere along the way the man had spent himself, left his sore and bruised body, pulled up his trousers and just walked away and left.

He left, like nothing happened, while Sherlock was lying broken in the alleyway. A rat approached him, sniffed his grubby face, only to decide he wasn't dead enough yet to serve as food.

Applause could faintly be heard from the theatre. Soon people would be exiting and find him.

Did he want to be found?

He just wanted to sink in that welcoming darkness and forget about it all.

Forget.

Years later he succeeded.

Until now.

…

Holmes can't deny anything, nor can he tell him what's wrong; he simply cannot speak at all. He just lies there, completely naked, but he's unable to cover himself up or protect himself in any other way.

So he just lies there.

Watson has never been so terrified in his life, except for the times when Holmes almost died - and one time he thought he did. But really, even while still breathing, his figure shaking, this occasion is no different - he might as well be cold and still.

He can't touch him. He doesn't know what to say. How's he supposed to comfort him? What if it's _him_ that's causing him this pain?

No, it can't be. After all they've been through, this can't be because of him.

And so he sits up and settles on just talking to him, even if it doesn't make any sense. Even if it's just whispering his name. He talks to him about their adventures, about silly conversations they shared. He talks about how he's always held a special place in his heart.

He doesn't tell him he loves him, even if it's true. He saves that for another time.

"Holmes, do you remember? Remember when you lost that one match in the fighting ring? You were so angry, I couldn't stop you. You were sure the referee had been biased, that you'd seen him accept money from the other contestant. I've never seen you that mad before. You were raging all the way upstairs and I tried to calm you down, but you were so overcome by adrenaline that you just shoved me onto the bed and yelled at me. And as I was looking at you, I just couldn't contain myself and I dragged you along with me - and then your lips crashed onto mine and I finally knew what I was missing. Holmes… I don't know what I'd do without you. And now I'm lost. Let me in, tell me what's going on..."

Holmes doesn't think he's ever heard the doctor be this gentle before. He still doesn't know what to do, he just wants to curl up and cry, let sleep overcome him and take him away to the darkest, faraway places and never return. He's sure he can't ever look at him again, look at the man that made him relive this all over.

But it's not fair.

He can't shut out Watson.

He doesn't think he'll live if he does. And despite the ominous temptations, he finds himself slowly sitting up, his gaze still turned away from him.

Watson doesn't speak.

Neither does Holmes.

He'll wait for him to be ready.

Minutes pass as they sit there, both naked, Holmes' arms folded around his knees as he slowly rocks himself back and forth. Watson watches him from behind, his eyes for once not scouring the well-defined muscles of his back, but watching him for a sign of approval. Anything that will allow him to hold him and take care of him.

Holmes needs him to. But at the same time, at this very moment, touching him will only make it worse.

"I suppose we can't just let this slip by."

He's startled by the fragile tone of his voice. Next to him sits a broken man, his ingenious mind crushed to nothing but mere tiny fragments.

"I understand you don't want to talk about this, but -"

"For both my sake and yours, I must. I'm just..."

"I know. I'll wait. Can I get you anything?"

"No." A loaded silence falls again between them, but Watson waits. He'll wait forever, if he has to. He would for him.

"Just... hold me."

He knows questioning him, assuring himself of this request, will only cause him to retract it. And as such he draws closer to him, putting one arm tentatively over his shoulder, the other around his waist. He stretches out his bad leg on his left side, allowing Holmes to slightly lean back into his chest. He can still feel him shivering, but he knows it has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

He feels a moist substance dripping onto his arm and the smell of salt enters his senses. His heart breaks even further and he thinks the pieces are too small to ever really fit together again, but he can't even begin to imagine what Holmes' must look like now. He can only cradle him gently, eventually realizing the firm grip the man has on him. His hands are holding onto him as though he were a lifeline, his face buried in the warm flesh of his arm.

Whatever Holmes had been through, it had to be more evil than all the enemies they've chased together.

He swears that if someone did this to him, he'll personally hunt down and kill whoever was responsible with his bare hands.

His attention is diverted back to this dreadful reality when he feels the body in his arms shifting. He looks down to see Holmes resting his head against his scarred shoulder, stubble grazing his skin.

They sat like that for what could be hours. Eventually the sun set and covered the room in darkness. Watson didn't turn on the lights, nor did Holmes; they just sat, secure in the safety of each other's arms - Holmes more so than Watson - until the first broke the silence again.

"Watson -"

In all this time he'd never called him John, and Watson didn't need him to. Especially now. He would patiently wait in front of any wall he pulled up until he felt comfortable enough to let him in.

"Could you turn on a light, please."

Not letting go of him his right arm reached out to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. Its soft, dim light cast their shadows on the floor and he couldn't help but look at them. They were one. One figure, one form. Nothing, not even light, an untouchable, elusive phenomenon separating them.

He felt fingers caressing the hand that was resting on his stomach. He knew the time had come.

"Anytime you want," he breathed.

The fingers closed around his, and he gave them a light squeeze.

"It happened one night in London..."

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><p><strong>Right. Now off to sleep. Got a huge assignment due on Monday and all.<strong>


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